


Save Me the Waltz

by terroruki



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Eventual Romance, Fate & Destiny, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28817151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terroruki/pseuds/terroruki
Summary: His looks were unforgiving, the blonde man that is. The blonde man that would appear in his dreams those nights where the world was too still. He was beautiful. Shorter wanted to tell him, but the bullet would always win.REUPLOAD
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Shorter Wong
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

He wakes up to damp pillowcases and clenched teeth. Another dream. He can’t call them nightmares. There’s something hauntingly ethereal about the boy in front of him. He can’t classify him as a monster.

It always begins the same. A knife dripping blood. The sound of wicked laughter mixed with pleading cries for it to end. He’s in so much pain; he can’t control himself. He’s tried. The blonde man picks up the gun and stares at him with tear-filled eyes. He yells _I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it._ But the executioner can’t hear him. He pulls the trigger like he’s killed a million times before, but not like this. This time is different, but the story repeats it all the same. He shoots him right through the heart. Shorter falls. The end.

They’re so vivid it kills him. If he thinks about it for too long, he can taste the red, metallic liquid pouring out of his mouth. He can almost hear the gunshot. He holds a hand to his chest, keeping in all that imaginary blood from a nonexistent wound.

He’s been to psychics, dream experts, whatever he can think of. None of them give genuine answers. _You’ve been hurt by others._ Or. _You’re running from something._ Yeah, he’s running. Running from a haunting boy who wants him dead.

His actual life is fine, he thinks. It’s painfully average and unfulfilling, but nothing worth causing this. This horror rooted in his bones, eating him from the inside. Almost a year of this, and the circles around his eyes only grow. What else is there to do?

He sits up and harshly rubs his eyes. The walk to the fridge is a short one as he searches for an open wine bottle. Anything that’ll let him sleep. The pills don’t work. Perhaps if he took them all at once.

“What are you doing?” Shorter looks up to Nadia staring at him with exasperated eyes. He still lives with his older sister at twenty-one. He’s depended on her his entire life, ever since their parents died. He doesn’t know how to stop.

“Getting water.”

“That doesn’t look like water.” She points to the pinot in his hand, making him sigh and put it back. He’s told her about the dreams, but she can’t fathom what it’s like. She can’t begin to comprehend how screwed up his head is these days. He glances at the stove clock. It’s three am, and they’re both awake. He feels terrible for disturbing her.

“I’m going back to sleep.” Shorter mutters a lie. He has to wait it out until sunrise. He can’t fall asleep on nights like these.

-

“You’re late.” Lao scowls as he walks in.

“Slept in.” 

“As usual.” His coworker clicks his tongue unpleasantly. He knew Lao liked him, liked him too much for words, but Shorter didn’t, couldn’t, feel the same. It caused a one sided resentment to wedge between them. A type of hurt only time would fix. So Shorter would accept the snappy attitude and bitter remarks, waiting for the return of his friend. He didn’t have many of those since the nightmares began.

He used to be so fun-loving and free. Now what was he, nothing worth saving.

“Hey, shawty.” Shorter immediately smiles at the nickname. It’s a tired smile that doesn’t completely reach his eyes, but it’s there. At least he has Sing. The sixteen-year-old art prodigy looks up to him for some reason. It’s endearing, but Shorter knows he doesn’t deserve it.

“Hey, Soo Soo.” He patronizingly ruffles his hair. The teenager frowns and bats his hand away.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“He’ll keep doing it because he knows you hate it,” Lao explains. He’s pretending to read a book and sound bored. Shorter once again ignores him and turns to Sing.

“I had a dream about your mom last night.” It’s their code for: _I had a dream about the mysterious boy with jade green eyes again._

“Was she hot?” Meaning: _Was it any different from before?_

“Gorier than ever.”

“You guys are weird.” Meaning: _Why won’t you include me in things?_ Shorter plops down on one of the waiting area’s couches. Wednesday’s are the slowest for business, but he doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t have to worry about someone coming in asking him to pierce their screaming baby’s ears.

Instagram is boring. Twitter has nothing new to say. Everything on his phone is Bland. Everything in life brings back painful memories of happier times. Maybe the sad truth is he peaked in college. Friends, a girlfriend, decent grades. A month before graduation, the delusions started. He isolated himself. Lashed out and lost it all. Now he’s stuck living with his stupid sister and working a stupid job with stupid Lao. No, he loves his sister dearly. She’s just becoming tired of his shit. Everyone is.

He misses Amber. They had been for each other those two years, but things always change. He loved her, so he cut her off after he deemed himself too disturbed to do anything but shake and cry in bed. It would’ve been pitiful if she had to watch him decay, but it hurt more to listen to her knocking and pleading outside his dorm room. _You’re clearly here, Shorter. Daniel saw you come in. Talk to me, please._ After three months, she stopped calling. No one calls anymore except Nadia asking him to pick a few things up from the store on his way home. But he made his bed. Now he will die in it. Jesus, he’s bumming himself out. He looks stupid, too, staring into space.

“Hey Sing, wanna tat me?” He turns around in time to see the kid’s eyes light up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not?” When the two get bored, they’ll draw all over each other. It’s a game of mindless doodles with the hopeful possibility one will accidentally turn out to be a cool idea. Shorter rarely goes through with it, and Sing is ironically afraid of needles. Their efforts are often another fruitless way to occupy time, but it’s still somewhat fun.

Sing springs up and heads to the station. Shorter follows suit. Lao probably rolls his eyes and goes back to reading. Sing takes off the cap of a familiar purple marker. It opens with a loud pop as his face turns mischievous.

“You finally gonna let me draw a dick on your forehead?” 

“Nope. And never will.” Sing lets out a dramatic sigh before doodling on Shorter’s upper arm. Shorter can’t tell what he’s doing, but he trusts him. Maybe that was a bad idea. Ever since he started working here, he wondered how Sing even got this job. Doesn’t he have to be in school or something? Though thinking back to his own high school days where classes were abandoned to hang out at the arcade, he can’t really judge.

“Viola. It’s done.” Shorter looks over to find a dumb little cartoon angel. It’s actually pretty dope.

“Okay, do it.” He’s feeling brave. Or rather, feeling numb. Maybe new ink on his skin and stinging pain will help him feel something. It doesn’t matter what the picture is.

“Hell yeah.”

_Buzzzzz_

_Buzzzzzz_

_Buzzzzzzz_

Nothing. He doesn’t feel a thing. Mild discomfort, yeah, but none of that excitement and anxiety he’s supposed to get when permanently engraving an image on his body. Sing finishes, and Shorter doesn’t even realize. He’s remembering those desperate eyes staring at him and taking aim. If only the boy in his dreams didn’t look miserable killing him. Remorse makes everything worse. Shorter knows from experience.

“Shawty, you good?” He snaps out of it.

“Ah- yeah. I’m good.” Just then a customer comes in. Sing quickly wraps his arm and gets to work. And luckily, nothing happens for the rest of the day. Shorter can’t be bothered to do his job. It’s a miracle he gets out of bed most mornings.

After closing for the day, they go to some fast-food joint. Three boys all chowing down on greasy burgers and cheap fries crammed in a small booth. Shorter takes a sip of his milkshake and tries to appreciate the little things. He ponders about his life, the absolute dullness of it all. This is nice, he has to tell himself. They say their goodbyes and will all probably do the same thing tomorrow.

-

The subway ride home is crowded and dirty. He wishes he could get a car, but they’re too expensive. Plus, New York traffic is god awful. Shorter looks down at his phone and frowns. He can’t beat this level in Angry Birds This has what his life has come to. Angry Birds. He even spent $3.99 to get the upgrade with no ads.

He touches his thumb on a spot on his neck he’d nicked shaving that morning. He’s been trying to feel better, and thus thought he could start by looking better, or at least do what he can to not feel so grimy and worthless by cleaning up something on his face. There is not much to do about the dark circles under his eyes, except sleep more, but he knows that’s easier said than done. In the workplace mirror, he had noted how his dark brown hair spikes up in all directions, no matter what he does to tame it. And maybe it made him look a little crazy, but he was fine with it. Because that definition was more accurate than anything.

It’s been years since he’s dyed it. Maybe he’d do it again for fun. He could buy a box of some crazy color like purple and try it out. Shorter scratches his new tattoo through his sweatshirt and feels a sharp pain. It would take a while to heal, and he’s prepared to make the process last as long as possible. Physical pain could temporarily distract from the emotional.

Twenty minutes of sweaty strangers and he’ll be home. Shorter can handle this. He does it every day. A barely audible voice comes through the speaker, telling passengers to board and leave carefully. He continues to sit there. An old man eyes him for the spot, but he can’t bring himself to care. _You’ve been standing for seventy years, what’s a couple more minutes?_ It’s packed, and the abrupt lurch of the car starting to move nearly knocks the man down. Shorter sighs and gets up. The elder happily takes a seat. Now he’s riding next to some kid in a hoodie. They both look at their phones and try not to accidentally bump shoulders.

But something is a bit off. Wrong, even. All of his senses are on high alert. His heart rate increases as his palms accumulate sweat. He wonders why he’s suddenly anxious, why he can’t go a day without some new mental catastrophe striking. It’s as if the air in his lungs is being sucked out of him. He looks around for a sign that anyone else is feeling this, but no one reacts. Shorter rubs his eyes, trying to get himself together. He is not about to have a panic attack in a train car. No way. But god, he almost feels like crying.

The train stops again at a popular spot, and most people get off. _So many people must’ve freaked me out,_ he reasons. _Everyone is claustrophobic sometimes._ He attempts to calm himself by looking through the windows to watch everyone leave. His gaze lazily follows the kid in the hoodie who takes off his hood to reveal short blonde locks complimenting bright green eyes. Shorter almost throws up. This can’t be real.

“Hey!” He shouts, but the doors are already closed. He runs up to the glass and tries to force them back open. “Hey!” He yells again, louder. No one on the platform seems to notice, so he watches The Boy turn around and walk the other direction, never to be seen again. Shorter gets deliriously desperate. He bangs on the door. “Open, open, open.” He chants as his life depends on it. Because it does. The female voice announces they’ll be departing. Shorter gets one last glimpse of platinum hair before nothing but blurring blackness. 

“Shit.” He violently mutters. “Open the door! Listen to me.” He knows they can’t. “Let me off!” His body feels weak. His bones ache as if he’s been walking for miles, like his knees will buckle under such a strain. The sheer weight of realizing he was right next to Him. Could he be hallucinating? No one else emits such an indefinable presence. No one else. This wasn’t a dream. His fists berate the walls. People are staring, but it’s the least of his concerns. Falling on his sword. Choking on his own spit . This can’t be real. “Stop the car!” He cries. He is, in fact, crying. A loud, horrid sob echoes through the small subway train. A whole year of his life he spent traumatized by a boy who simply walked away. Shorter’s stability, his motivation, his laugh. Hasn’t God had enough? What else is there for him to take?

“Sir, you need to calm down.” A seated woman speaks with a stern look on her face. Humans tend to stay in their own little worlds. It takes a lot for anyone to pay attention to what others do if it’s not directly involving themselves, so it’s obvious now that his complete breakdown has inconvenienced someone. Shorter opens his mouth to explain, but all he tastes is running snot and hot tears. The bullet lodged in his chest keeps him weighed down. Blood is filling his shoes, can’t she see that? Doesn’t she understand? Going by the look on her face, she doesn’t. He wants to curl in on himself and wait to bleed out. He wants to wake up next to Amber and realize this past year was all a sick, twisted dream.

“Why didn’t you shoot me?” What was supposed to be a thought instead comes out as a hoarse plea. Another pathetic hiccup as he cries. By now, she’s probably written him off as some homeless schizophrenic. 

“I’m going to have to call subway security if you don’t blah blah blah blah.” The woman continues. He’d assume it’s an empty threat considering almost no one has the number to subway security ready to go. Still, her stare is lethal. He won’t take his chances. Luckily, the train stops, and he bolts out.

He rushes into the grimy, disgusting subway station bathroom with phone numbers scribbled on the walls and tries to regain a hint of sanity. His mind is blank besides those graphic scenes etched into his brain. O _f course, he didn’t shoot me. We weren’t in that dungeon._ He laughs, swallowing down the bile trying to escape his throat. Today wasn’t his day. Shorter grips the edges of the sink and closes his eyes. He can’t go back. The boy won’t be there. He knows this, yet still wants to try. Maybe he’ll catch a sign of him. A sound, a smell, anything to prove he’s not going crazy. He _was_ there.

After a few minutes of stabilizing his breathing, wiping his face, and trying to look like a sane member of society, he walks out. He can’t use the subway anymore, not after tonight. He’ll bike the thirty blocks to work if he has to.

When he arrives home, it’s almost midnight, and the fifteen-minute walk in New York cold wasn’t necessarily pleasant. He’s cranky, freezing, and emotionally drained. Taking no pity on her brother, Nadia questions him right away. He takes a hot shower first, replaying the images. He should forget about it, label it a weird coincidence. But coincidences didn’t leave this massive feeling of deja reve.

Getting out, Nadia has hot chocolate and worried lectures waiting for him.

“So what happened?”

“Nothing.” 

“You can’t expect me to believe that.” Leaning up against the kitchen counter, she takes a sip out of her own mug. Shorter’s usual charismatic lies could never fool his older sister. 

“I kinda saw a guy who looks like the one in my dream.” _That_ **_was_ ** _the guy in my dream._ He tries to sound casual, like the incident didn’t deeply disturb him beyond repair.

“Well, you can’t create a new face in your head you haven’t already witnessed. You’ve probably seen him around before and didn’t remember it.” Shorter nearly chokes.

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean, did you think this guy only existed in your head? He’s an actual person.” She thought for a moment. “He probably doesn’t know he’s been torturing you, though.” Shorter’s head was reeling. So the blonde man was real and somewhere in New York… He had spent so much time and energy looking into the wrong things. He shouldn’t have been looking to others for help, he should’ve been looking for _him_. His hangman. His angel. The one who sets him free. Nadia looks at him, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, probably not.” Was all he could say.

-

The victor goes the spoils, but he was no victor. He didn’t have a clue on where to start. Eight million strangers all living in New York, and his target was one man. At least he was special. Blonde hair and green eyes, that was different, right? Shorter started by looking at modeling companies. It was a bit shameful and bizarre thinking his killer was attractive, but it was a decent first lead that ended up going nowhere. Then, he creepily wandered around the nearby universities on the nonexistent chance he’d run into him. Like a ghost returning to their childhood home, he usually could only stay for about an hour before feeling sick and leaving. Yet on his voyage, he received some college girls’ numbers. Maybe he’d call one once he figured all this out (if that was even a plausible possibility).

In more desperate states, he ran his hands along the pages of a phone book, hoping God would give him a sign or some shit.

With snow tormenting the ground, he has no other option but to ride the subway again, endlessly searching for that boy in a hoodie. He never shows up, obviously. Shorter’s hope was rapidly diminishing. It was foolish to ever believe he could do this. Almost a month of searching, and he was in the same spot. Though one thing had changed: the nightmares ceased to exist. He isn’t having them anymore. He isn’t dreaming at all. Nothing but a warm, deep sleep for seven hours straight. It was heavenly, if not a little worrisome. Maybe his dream figure was satisfied in his search for him and was waiting to be found.

He calls up that girl, Diana. She’s ginger. Shorter has never been with a ginger before. He’s excited about it. She is funny and sweet and understands his WWE references. He wants to kiss her on the first date, so he does. They end up doing a lot more than kissing, and Shorter had forgotten how nice it was to be touched by another person. He had become despicably lonely this past year. Kind of flabby, too. Not having the energy to keep up with the work outs needed to maintain a six-pack. It is time to change that.

He lies with her for the third time that week and traces the curve of her arm with his fingertips. She smiles.

“I can make pancakes in the morning.”

“Sure.” Shorter feels his own lips curl upwards. Diana turns around so she’s no longer facing him. His arm slides around her naked back so he’s cuddling her softly. No gunshots, no boys with angel eyes, just this.

But he does dream that night. It’s of the blonde boy laughing and lightly shoving him. They’re at his parents’ old Chang Dai. Though in reality the restaurant has been closed down for years, in this dream it’s open for business and bustling. Nadia serves them. “Shorter’s special Chinese breakfast, ready to go _._ ” She smiles at the boy like she’s known him for forever. The killer takes a bite and shrugs, but he’s not a killer in this. Not yet. He’s a boy. “It’s okay. Panda Express is better.” Shorter finds himself becoming unreasonably offended. “Just okay?” The boy rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Just okay.” He gives him a grin though, and it’s unbearable how bright he is. How a genuine smile can leave Shorter breathless. They’re friends. They’ve always been friends. How could he forget this? His hangman. His fallen angel. His _friend_.

Shorter wakes up the same as always with tears rolling down his cheeks. Instead of bullets, it fills his heart with yearning. No guns, but longing for a boy who’s not there. He was beautiful, with eyes made of bulletproof glass and the mouth of a butcher. He scared Shorter, unbelievably so. Shorter would rather go back to his regularly scheduled death than this. This sense of companionship was millions of times worse. He turns to Diana, who’s still asleep. Thank God she didn’t wake up to see a broken stranger overcome with delusions sitting in her bed. No matter how empathetic someone may claim to be, this phenomenon isn’t understandable, or even explainable. Especially not by the dreamer. He tries to hold her tight and pretend it didn’t happen. For weeks he’s been anxiously waiting for him to strike, and the devil finally did. 

Now he wants to leave town and never come back until he finds him. That’s impossible, though. He has to live his life. Forget about it. Call up his friends, and if they don’t hate him, hang out. Tell his sister he loves her more. Get his own place and stop searching for a ghost. _Please, please, please forget about it._

-

Diana loves the library, so she takes Shorter with her. A lovely Saturday afternoon, he would rather be outside despite the cold. She could have his jacket, and he could put on a brave face against the frigid winds. They could go to a hotdog stand, and he could ask for extra relish. Instead, he’s staring at pretentious Keats and Yeats and whoever. 

The New York Public Library is gorgeous, he must admit. With golden lighting and painted ceiling murals, it’s like what Shorter would imagine heaven to be like. Minus all the books. His new girlfriend grabs his hand.

“Look, they have an original 1888 print of Wilde’s _The Selfish Giant_ , isn’t that cool?” Shorter nods.

“Dope.”

“It’s not dope, it’s amazing! This book is more than a hundred years old, and they’re letting people touch it.” She gently but enthusiastically flips through the pages, eyes full of wonder. Shorter wishes he could feel that passionately about something. His investigation for the Dream Boy hasn’t ended, but he doesn’t do it for piqued interest or a fun hobby. It’s survival. It devours him. He needs to find this guy, and he needs to find him fast before his life gets ruined all over again.

“I’m gonna go talk to the librarian and see if they have other prints like this. Wanna come?”

“I think I’ll walk around for a bit.” Meaning: _hell no_ . Instead, he unconsciously wanders to the nonfiction section: Philosophy and Psychology > Parapsychology and Occultism > Dreams and Mystics. Oh, Dreams and Mystics. He cautiously takes out a book, like if he picks the wrong one there’s going to be a trapdoor or pitfall. _The Interpretation of Dreams_ by Sigmund Freud, wasn’t that the guy who wanted to bang his mom? No thanks. Shorter sighs and puts the book back. Books wouldn’t help him. Everything he does is wishful thinking. Everything besides entering the next row to come across some kid with glasses. Oh shit.

There’s that sensation again. It’s unwarranted and cruel in the way it strikes Shorter out of nowhere. He’s frightened. How does one man force him to feel like this? Like crying, like he’s standing in that dark dungeon, begging to die. _I’m in so much pain… set me free._

Hoping to stay hidden, Shorter immediately goes around to the other side again. Though he looks a bit different, it is definitely him. Shorter peeps his head around. He’s examining a book called _The Undiscovered Self_ by Carl Jung. In the dream section. The man in his dreams is in the New York Public Library, looking at a book about _dreams_.

He isn’t sure what to do. He’d never thought he’d get this close. An angel fallen from the heavens is only a few yards away, a halo of light shining down on him. Dream Boy wearing thinly framed glasses and a warm-looking wool sweater, what does he do now? What’s his next step? There isn’t time to think because the blonde man turns to him with a raised eyebrow and asks:

“Can I help you with something?” He’s found him. The same voice that cries _Shorter Shorter Shorter_ repeatedly is now speaking to him as a stranger. But they weren’t. No matter how far away, they could never be strangers. It takes all of Shorter’s strength to move his feet forward so he’s standing in front of him. The devil is just within arm's reach.

“I know you.” It comes out shaky and pathetic. All this time searching, and he didn’t think of something to say if he found him. Stupid idiot. Dream Boy closes the book in his hands with a resonating thud. He doesn’t take kindly to weird dudes staring at him in the library.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I _know_ you.” His voice is more confident this time, but his hands still shake like they did in the subway. This can’t be happening. If only he had time to regain his composure, to not look like a complete nut job.

“We’ve never met. Now excuse me,” he turns to walk away. _No, no, no, no._ _You’re not getting away again. Not until l have answers._ Shorter instinctively grabs his wrist, which turns out to be a horrible decision on his part. He’s now being pinned up against the bookshelf with an arm behind his back. The boy was stronger than he looked.

“I don’t know what you want from me, creep, but you’re not getting it.”

“What?”

“You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass right now in the library” It’s a harsh whisper that sends shivers down Shorter’s spine. Even in his dreams, he never had this much contempt in his voice. There was always affection mixed in with misery. Yet now Shorter is a true enemy to him. 

“Let me go.” He coughs out, but he doesn’t mean psychically. “Whatever hex or curse you have on me, let me go.” He desperately pleads. The killer steps back but continues to stare at him with eyes full of rage.

“You’re a fucking pig, finding me here. Talk to me again and I will kill you.” He walks away, leaving the book there. It leaves Shorter feeling horrible and not knowing why. It’s not his fault. He’s not the shooter, yet he wants to apologize. There was so much pain in those couple of sentences alone. Whatever that boy has been through, it must be worse than a couple of silly dreams. But they’re not silly to Shorter. They’re everything wrong in his life.

“But you already have.” He calls. His brain tells him to laugh and cry at the same time, but he overpowers it with a strained expression. “Again and again, each night you lodge a bullet in my chest.” He can taste the saltwater sliding into his mouth. He curses himself for once again acting like a crybaby or some character in a soap opera. The boy turns around nonetheless.

“Let’s go outside.” He softly says. Heart pounding, Shorter follows him out the front doors to greet the sharp winds blowing against him. He should’ve brought a thicker coat. He should’ve prepared his heart for this. They continue to walk down the sidewalk in silence, but Shorter can’t stand it any longer. He wipes his eyes and asks:

“What are we doing? Do you know what I’m talking about or not?”

“There’s a pizza place two blocks away. I’m not going anywhere alone with you.” He ignores the second question and refuses to look at him. Shorter almost laughs in hysteria.

“ _You’re_ scared of _me_? I’m the one who keeps dying.” 

“I have my reasons to not trust strangers.” He says sharply, giving him a contempt glance. His eyes were even more vibrant up close. Jewels made of gorgeous jade that had been haunting Shorter for months are looking at him in person. It is beautiful yet terrifying, a lot like the boy himself.

“Heh, don’t we all.” Shorter jokes. He wants him to give a nod, a smile, a wink, anything to prove he’s human. Anything to prove he’s not a figment of Shorter’s thoroughly screwed up imagination. But he doesn’t. He keeps walking. 

When they arrive, they individually order and pay, exchanging no words to each other. The pizza joint is cheap and dingy without many customers, and Shorter wonders if this is a usual spot for him. It’s not until they’re both seated in a red, disturbingly sticky booth that he speaks again.

“My name is Ash.”

“So?” It comes out before he can think to say something else. His shooter’s name isn’t what he’s after right now. He needs to figure out why this is happening and if Ash has the same terrible affliction. _Do you dream of me?_ He almost asks.

“ _So._ I thought we should introduce ourselves.”

“I’m Shorter.”

“I know.” Shorter squints his eyes, but he’s not sure if Ash can tell through his sunglasses. If killing him in his dreams wasn’t enough, Ash has to be pissy to him now.

The boy across the table takes a bite of the greasy-looking pizza. Shorter looks down at his own, not sure if he actually wants to eat it. His Chinese cooking is way better than this, but he doubts Ash will remember if he tells him. He stores all these memories of a man he’s meeting for the first time. Leaving Diana at the library hasn’t even crossed his mind. He takes a loud slurp from his soda fountain Dr. Pepper.

“Why'd you go wacko on me at the library? Did you think I was some kinda mafia boss here to take you out?”

“No,” Ash frowns, “as I said, I have reasons to be wary of strangers. And wearing sunglasses indoors doesn’t help your case.” Shorter can’t tell if that was a joke or not, but he snorts anyway.

“They’re prescription. If I wore normal glasses, I’d look like a dweeb like you.” They’re being oddly calm considering he was technically threatened a few minutes ago.

“I don’t look like a dweeb.” He says completely flat. “And that’s the stupidest reasoning I’ve ever heard.” Shorter plans on retorting but decides there are more important matters to attend to. His heart rate still hasn’t gone down. It’s like talking to a criminal and a pretty girl at the same time.

“Why do I keep having dreams about you?” He interrogates. Blondie shrugs. “And they aren’t fun, sexy dreams either.” His fist tightens around his drink. He wishes Ash wouldn’t look nonchalant about all this. “They’re nightmares that wake me up almost every night.”

“You think I enjoy seeing my best friend killed every time I close my eyes?” He snaps. “If I controlled it, it would’ve ended for both of us a long time ago.” Shorter freezes. He _does_ have these dreams. The same as him. Now what? What would they possibly do? His best friend. Shorter was Ash’s best friend.

“You think it’s a sign?”

“That I’m going to shoot you? No.” Ash shakes his head and takes a sip of his water. He’s gone from almost beating him up to teasing him in half an hour. Kind of neurotic, if you ask Shorter. But again, he doesn’t know his backstory. His _anything_. Not yet, at least.

“We gotta find a way to stop this. No offense, but you’re like the bane of my existence right now.” Neither of them speak for a while. Shorter gathers the courage to take a bite out of his now lukewarm pizza. It’s not that bad. Ash fiddles with a strand of his hair. It looks soft. Shorter wants to touch it too.

“In my dreams, you have a purple mohawk.” He finally says.

“Really? I had a mohawk in high school, but it was green.” There was a pause. “In my dreams, you have your ears pierced.” 

“Really?” Ash unconsciously touches his earlobe.

“Your hair is slicked back, and you’re wearing a suit and everything. It’s like you got all dressed up to kill me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” He says without hesitation, and it leaves Shorter feeling some type of way. They care about each other. Maybe not now, but then. “Do you believe in alternate realities?” The question catches him off guard.

“Alternate what?” Ash rolls his eyes. It feels so familiar for him to be annoyed at Shorter’s stupidity that he has to remember this is their first time officially meeting.

“I’ve been looking into it. People who believe in it say this is one timeline out of many similar timelines. So maybe there’s a different universe out there where everything is the same, but you dye your hair purple instead of green. Or maybe you dye it blue. You get what I’m saying?”

“I guess.”

“The possibility of a universe out there where I shoot you with those exact circumstances in that exact situation is probable. Certain, even.” Shorter doesn’t really understand it. It all sounds a bit hair-brained to him, but he doesn’t want Ash thinking he’s close-minded.

“So how do we get the nightmares to go away?” Ash stares at him.

“We don’t.”

“Huh?”

“There’s nothing we can do about it, Shorter.” His name on Ash’s lips gives him chills. He’s supposed to know what to do, how to fix this. Shorter tries to feel anger, but all he ends up with is despair.

“So what now?” He asks, and Ash surprisingly smiles. Not as full as in his dreams, but maybe it’s best not to compare the two. Imagination and reality getting warped together to create one man. Shorter wonders what the other sees in him. A stumbling idiot, praying to be shot...

“Good question.” Right after he says it, Ash gets a text. He looks down at his phone and frowns. “It’s from my boss. I have to go.”

“Where do you work?”

“The library.” Of course. If Shorter was a little more studious in his free time, he could’ve easily found his killer months ago. Ash stands up, and Shorter abruptly does the same, almost flipping the table over doing so. He can’t lose him. Not again. They were in this together, and he’ll follow him anywhere.

“I’ll go too. My girlfriend's probably wondering where I am, anyway.” Oh yeah, he has one of those now. Ash makes a face Shorter can’t quite decipher. He predicts Ash has a lot of faces like those.

“Girlfriend? I knew you wouldn’t visit a library on your own.”

“Wha- are you making fun of me?” Ash smiles again, and it's the most beautiful, radiant thing Shorter has seen in a long time. Yet horrifying knowing what he’s capable of. There was no way to fix this.

“Perhaps.”


	2. Chapter 2

Nadia still burns paper money for their parents. The two stay dead, but their tribute lives solely within her. The Goddess of Mercy has so many of Nadia’s prayers she probably no longer picks up the phone. Shorter never really believed in that kind of thing, anyway. Though his sister would slap him for saying it, it always seemed like a waste of time and of trees. But she’ll do anything to be closer to their family, even if it means practicing their old religious beliefs. Even if it means taking out chunks of herself to be filled with her mother’s culture and her father’s superstitions.

Though he wonders if anyone did that for him when he died. If Ash even knew how. If Nadia cried or if his remains were ever put in an urn. Thinking about all this made him feel like a deadman. A ghost possessing flesh for one more chance at life when he’s already supposed to be long gone. Ignoring the hole growing in his chest, trying to fake it. Even if he has Ash, it doesn’t stop. It’ll never stop until those flakes of paper finally burn for him.

But Shorter is fun. He’s light. He can take a hit and get right back up, and that’s what he does. Nobody needs to know he is internally decaying because that’s not charming. It’s not _Shorter_. He’s witty. He’s joyful, sometimes even obnoxious. The only one who could relate to him is Ash, who might be the most intimidating person on earth, an impenetrable fortress of ideas and harsh glances. Since Shorter doubts they’ll have a heart-to-heart anytime soon, he continues to push it down and keep living life just like everyone else.

“You’re coming to my birthday party, right?” Sing’s almost prepubescent voice rips him away from his thoughts. “It’s next Saturday, and I need cool adults to make it look legit.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s just gonna be a bunch of high schoolers drinking wine coolers.” Lao advises. Shorter was finally getting a sense of the dynamic. Sing and Lao were half-brothers, and it only took him three months of working with them to figure that out. Also, Sing has to manage school, friends, and an adult job all at the same time. He does it because it’s his passion. If anything, Shorter should look up to him, not the other way around.

“Yeah, and that’s why you’re not getting any.” He sticks his tongue out at his brother. Lao returns the favor. The exchange is childish, the way these boys should behave, not having to fear shootings or the violence that haunts Shorter more and more lately. If only he could join in.

“Sorry, I have plans Saturday.” Ash plans there’s no way he could ever miss, even if it disappoints the closest thing he’s had to a little brother. Sing’s shoulders sink as Lao’s face turns to anger. He wanted him to come and chaperone, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Shorter suddenly feels a jolt of guilt remembering how he used to chase Lao around the shop trying to tickle him. Or how they would take smoke breaks at the same time just so they could talk alone. He wasn’t always this stiff around him. It was Shorter’s own idiotic idea to lead him on, simply because he liked the attention. Lao is just another person hurt by him, and right then he promises Sing won’t be.

“I can probably rearrange them though.”

“Really?” Sing’s feigned apathy quickly turns back into excitement. Shorter now has to live with the decision of attending a high school house party and subsequently condoning underage drinking.

“You can invite your girlfriend if you want.” 

“Eh,” Shorter scratches his head, “we broke up.”

“Oh.” Sing shrugs, uncaring either way. For a split second, he thinks about taking Ash, which is the stupidest idea he’s had in a long time. He constantly thinks of him, his eyes, his unknown past, his trembling fingers pulling the trigger. Ash was about the farthest thing away from being Shorter’s girlfriend. In the back of Shorter’s mind, there was always a slight fear he would randomly pull out a revolver and finish the job. Definitely not someone he should take to a party.

-

“You look nice today,” is the first thing Shorter says to him, and Ash does look nice. He bought new glasses that were thinner and shaped his face better. Not that Ash’s face wasn’t nice before. Not that Shorter doesn’t think about Ash’s face all the time, dreams or not. Ash frowns at the compliment.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t sound very grateful. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” At least he’s honest. Shorter had gotten no sleep the previous night. He probably looked like shit. Yet he’s gotten a bit more confident talking to Ash, or his heart rate doesn’t go into panic mode every time he sees him anymore. 

It’s Saturday, and they’ve been spending every weekend like this: in the library, sitting at a table and reading their respective books. Shorter is on his fifth Wonder Woman comic, and boy is she hot. 

They sit together but hardly converse. It’s never because Shorter has nothing to say; he can talk out of ass for days. But because it’s Killer Dream Boy, he can’t bring himself to speak of anything that’s not relevant to their investigation. Or rather, Ash’s investigation. Shorter is too dumb to help, and the things he says are met with curt, one-sentence answers. Through hanging out, Ash hasn’t gotten any friendlier. But he’ll take what he can get. A small smile here and there. The dreams that don’t end in death.

“Anything new that’ll help our research?” Ash asks. It’s rare for him to initiate conversation. Perhaps he’s getting desperate. Shorter wants to tell him about just how morbid and agonizing the nightmares are, but his mouth won’t open. “Shorter.” Annoyed at his lack of response, Ash waves a hand in front of his face.

“Oh, uh, yeah. No.”

“Jeez, you’re really out of it.” He already has his laptop open, probably scouring the internet for information on this strange phenomenon. “You should go home early and get some sleep. I can continue on my own.” At first, Shorter thinks he’s trying to get rid of him. It’s as Shorter is one big burden that Ash doesn’t want to deal with. Though his features almost resemble concern, as he _cares_ about Shorter’s wellbeing. Which is enough to leave him feeling sick all on its own.

“Nah!” He says a little louder than intended. “It’s fine. I’ll stay… Plus, Diana is about to face off with Ares, so I gotta find out what happens.”

“Uh-huh.” Ash rolls his eyes slightly and starts typing again. Still studying the screen, he doesn’t seem to pay attention, yet he slides two books across the table. They’re the next comics in the series. He remembered and got them out just for Shorter. Frazzled, he finally scoots his chair under the table better to join the librarian. Shorter can’t help but feel _something_ about how Ash took the time to find his comics. Whatever that something is, is to be determined.

“Ya read any DC or Marvel?”

“Not really.” He sounds bored at the question.

“So what, you just popped out the womb knowing Kafka?” This earns a smile from Ash. A smile he doesn’t deserve but is so pleased to be graced with this fine Saturday morning.

“My brother used to read me poetry and whatnot. I never really got to read any kid’s picture books.” He sets his face in his palm, and his eyes continue to flit through the screen.

“What about Harry Potter?”

“Not even Harry Potter.” He affirms.

“Wow.” Shorter whistles for emphasis. “That’s tragic.” Ash makes a hum in agreement but says nothing else. Shorter had hoped he would elaborate on his brother. It never occurred to him that Ash could have a sibling. He seemed so stoic and alone, but it was difficult to tell with him. When it came to the story of Ash, Shorter was completely illiterate.

A couple of hours pass, and Wonder Woman defeats all the bad guys, obviously. When he peers up, Ash is nose deep in some thick encyclopedia. Shorter looks back down at the colorful pages in his hands. Feeling accomplished that he was able to finish the volumes without becoming bored and finding something else, what Shorter does with practically everything, he prepares to get up and go find another piece of literature. Perhaps something semi-academic to impress his dream-best-friend. Something other than what Ash refers to as “kids picture books”. He’s about to go browse when Ash reaches over the table to peaks at Shorter’s comic.

“You’re just done with that series?”

“Hey, I’m a slow reader.”

“You’re a slow everything.” Ash returns to his seat and goes back to ignoring him. And instead of the annoyance Shorter should feel at least a hint of, there’s glee that he took two seconds out of his day to pay attention to him. To speak to him in that matter-of-fact tone. One day he had said: _Reading comics is such a you thing, Shorter._ And it was. He didn’t think Ash even noticed what he was reading until then, or that he cared enough to associate it with him. It was little observant things that only a friend would fully appreciate. Or perhaps, so starved for human companionship, he was looking far too much into it.

Bored, he rocks his chair and points up at the ceiling to count lights. He doesn’t really feel like walking around to find a new book. After a few minutes, he asks:

“Found anything?”

“No. Only a bunch of pretentious pseudoscience.” Shorter sighs at his confirmation that no progress has been made. 

“Well, I found _your mom_ in my room last night. Do you think that’ll help?” Frustrated, Shorter snaps in the lamest way. There is a pause, and he’s sure Ash is going to scold his immaturity as per usual. He isn’t sure why he said it, maybe to regain that hint of his younger self slowly being lost forever. Maybe to lighten the otherwise deathly serious mood. Sometimes he wonders where his rambunctious, teenage self went. When did he deteriorate into _this_? This sad, mopey adult, too scared to do anything. He misses getting high and going to the movies. He misses amusement parks and fist fights and stolen kisses under the bleachers.

And the near impossible happens, Ash laughs. It is heavenly and also kind of ugly sounding. He giggles so hard he starts hiccuping, and people turn around to see what is so damn funny. 

That was the very first time he saw Ash laugh. It was two entire months after he’d first met him. His face when he laughed… was cute and childlike, and totally angelic.

“C’mon, that was the lowest hanging fruit I’ve ever grabbed. You really liked it?” Shorter continues and can’t help but grin. Ash’s hand clutches his stomach as he uses the other to wipe a tear away.

“It’s just,” another hiccup, “the way you said it was,” another fit of laughter. He covers his face with his hands, not wanting to show how even mysterious librarians like him are capable of fun. Similar to Sing, Shorter isn’t sure how Ash was approved for this job or how he maintains it. He’s not a people person, he’s lazy with organizing the books, and he laughs like this in a study area. Granted, this isn’t a usual occurrence. He finally calms down to look Shorter dead in the eye and say:

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, right.” Bouncing off these good vibes, Shorter asks, “Pizza?” Ash typically rejects his offer to go get food, to see Shorter outside of the library setting. He doesn’t even have his phone number. There’s an unspoken knowledge they’ll both show up. It’s such an enormous library, but Ash always sits at the same table. Unless someone else is sitting there, then he’ll look mad for the rest of the day.

“Sure.”

“Yessss.” He’s happy, but regrettably, insanely nervous. Maybe hanging out with Ash was a terrible, horrible, horrendous idea. What was the outcome? They get closer? His dreams hurt him even _more_? But they’ve already been at it for two months. Shorter can definitely take it. Totally. 

“I’m not paying, though.” He slips on his coat. _Cheap bastard,_ Shorter thinks. They walk slowly, silently, side by side. Shorter isn’t used to this part of NYC. He isn’t used to anything so far outside of Chinatown. This was nice, and he doesn’t have to remind himself to be happy. He just is. Looking out at the Atlantic Ocean, he suddenly wants to go on a ferry ride. He’s only been to the Statue of Liberty once when he was a kid. It was so long ago, his parents were still alive. The island isn’t anywhere close, but they could at least look around.

“We should get on a boat.” Ash looks to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Like the ferry? Or did you want to hijack a canoe?”

“Like the ferry, smartass.” There was a pause. “So can we go or not?” He isn’t sure why he’s asking for permission. He’s a grown man and three years older than Ash. Yet it’s almost like Ash is his mom saying things like _we have food at home, sweetie,_ or _we came to study, not play_. Maybe just like a child, Shorter can harass Ash until he says yes.

“If you were going to be annoying about it, I suppose so.”

“I didn’t even say anything annoying!”

“Something was brewing in that small brain of yours. I could feel it.”

“Small? I can assure you, _nothing_ about me is small, my guy.”

“You’re gross.” Ash walks away, leaving any hint of their banter behind. Shorter follows him to the docks, where they wait in more silence for the next boat to arrive. Always silence. It seems Ash has nothing to say to him. He wants to ask about his readings but knows he won’t understand it. And Ash won’t want to explain. What could they talk about? What could they possibly have in common besides these haunting visions? Soon enough horn blows, signaling it’s time to get a ticket and board.

“After you.” The sea breeze feels wonderful as he walks out on the deck. Shorter takes a deep breath in and lets his body feel the waves as his arms lay over the edge of the boat, probably not something he’s allowed to do. Wind whipping in his face, Ash steps next to him. Shorter wonders how he’ll manage with such long hair. Well, it’s not that long, but he could put it in a small ponytail if he so desired. Ash in a ponytail… oh no. He can’t go down this road again of contemplating how beautiful his murder is. Though he can’t stop staring.

Ash doesn’t seem to mind or even notice. He looks forward at the ocean and lets his hair blow wherever. They calmly watch the shore disappear. He suddenly has a question.

“You have any more dreams about me?” He means it jokingly, but Ash answers with a straight face.

“I burn your body afterward.” _Oh._ Shorter isn’t sure what to say.

“Did I look smokin’ hot?” He can see Ash bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling or showing any hint of positive emotion. He fails at it. And it makes Shorter wonder how someone so refined could have such a silly sense of humor. Ash is just a tall child, and it’s wonderful to see this side of him. It’s funny how this was all coming together so quickly. He is finally getting something out of this guy. Maybe Ash was in a good mood. Maybe fate was on Shorter’s side for once. Their side, for once. After a few minutes of gazing at the ocean in silence, Ash thinks aloud:

“This is so boring. I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“You want me to jump in and make it more interesting?”

“I won’t save you if you drown.” They both smile, and Ash finally looks at him rather than just straight ahead. Their eyes meet, and it’s simultaneously the best and worst moment of Shorter’s life. He could get used to this.

-

“You wanna go to a high schooler’s birthday party with me?” It’s 11:30am, and he practically sprinted from the subway station to the library. He’s late and a little out of breath. The question out of context was undoubtedly suspicious. It was a reminder why he doesn’t speak to Ash unless spoken to. Because nonsense pops out. His original plan was just telling him he was busy later today, not actually inviting him to come along.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Well uh, my friend invited me, and I don’t wanna go alone.”

“You’re friends with high schoolers?”

“Well, I know him through work, so…”

“Do you work at a daycare?” This was going terribly. He laughs nervously, but Ash isn’t buying it. His deadpan would almost be funny if Shorter wasn’t getting the most judgemental glare he’s ever witnessed.

“No, I work at a Daredevil Tattoo. Where a… high schooler works.” It sounds even more pathetic out loud. Shorter had wasted his high school years in a petty street gang, only went to community college because his sister practically forced him, and now had a moderately low-paying job a sixteen-year-old was better at. All those childhood ambitions of becoming an astronaut, of making _something_ out of himself, all felt like heavy failures talking to Ash. He had never cared so much about what someone thought of him and his life before. He can’t mess up what they have, but he just did with one simple question.

“Sure, I’ll come.” Ash shrugs, and it’s the least convincing Shorter’s ever had to do with him. He agrees quickly, too quickly. Shorter should wonder if he has any ulterior motives, but instead sits down in relief and opens a Catwoman comic Ash had gotten out for him.

Before they leave for the day, he scribbles the address on the back of a bookmark. They’ll meet up at eight, Ash says, and Shorter feels himself becoming anxious again. Not like before, not pure fear of being shot or anything. Scared like the kind of scared you get before taking a girl to the prom. Scared like the _oh shit, I hope I look alright and don’t smell weird_ kind of scared. He wants a chance to impress him, to take him to a lame party and dazzle him with how handsome and charismatic he is. Ash makes him feel like a teenager again, so the setting is almost fitting.

He goes home to take a shower and pick out a decent outfit. He puts all of his piercings in, flexes in the mirror to clarify his workout routine is giving the desired effect, and considers putting on cologne before ultimately determining it’d be too much. Shorter wanted Ash to like him from the very beginning, but it was oddly and rapidly warping into something else. Shorter wants Ash to be _attracted_ to him in the same way he is to Ash. Because he really was an angel. A divine being sent down to torture him with quips and smiles, Shorter can’t help but fall into his “mysterious bad boy” trap. He’s stopped trying to fight it. He’ll figure out Ash whatever-his-last-name-is, even if it takes him a whole other life. They’ll keep meeting until he gets it right.

He’s still frightened, though. Frightened, he has nothing to offer. Ash is so perfect, wise beyond his years. How could he ever keep up? Maybe the dreams are right, all he has to give Ash is his life. He’ll give it gladly if there’s nothing else he wants. _Just take something from me. Anything and it’s yours._

Like a G6 is blaring when he arrives at Sing’s house. His parents are conveniently gone for the weekend, and their home has literally been turned into teenage anarchy. Shorter decides he _would_ like to be popping bottles in the ice. He should be a responsible citizen here, but with these annoying kids he might need a drink or two. As long as he doesn’t accidentally throw up on some poor teenage girl, it should be fine.

A couple of kids have started a shitty game of beer pong where others simply talk on the couch or awkwardly dance, red solo cups in hand. The lights are dimmed, and there’s even one of those strobe light disco things. He scans the living and dining area for Sing, but the birthday boy is nowhere to be found. Dammit, without him to explain, Shorter really looks like a big old loser standing against the wall, surveying everyone having fun. He feels ancient. It’s clear he’s not one of them. If only Ash or even Lao were here to sulk beside him. A voice next to him makes Shorter jump.

“Why are we here again?” It’s Ash. He had changed outfits as well and looks like he fit in. Ripped jeans and sweatshirt, cool kid style. Just as he speaks, green light from the disco hits his face, and he looks beautiful. It takes all of Shorter’s willpower to look away.

“My coworker, Sing, is around here somewhere. Look out for a scrawny Chinese kid.” Ash eyes the crowd. There is a surprising amount of people, not like the lame, sober get-together Lao had explained. It almost makes the whole situation worse. Only now does Shorter understand how big of a mistake this might have been. Ash and Lao meeting. Sing probably wondering who the hell this guy is and why he’s at his party. If this went terribly, a very plausible forecast, all Shorter could blame was himself.

“I see a lot of scrawny Chinese kids here, Shorter.”

“Well,” he wants to retort but ends up laughing, “I guess you’re right.” He quickly adds, “Drinks?” Ash nods, and Shorter instinctively grabs ahold of the other’s hand so he won’t lose him to a crowd of hormonal monsters on the way to the kitchen. He doesn’t even consider how horrible the last attempt to touch Ash had turned out for him. It isn’t until they are both staring at a variety of drinks on the counter does Shorter realizes Ash hasn’t let go or harshly pulled away as expected. This is progress. This is, hopefully, a blooming friendship. Alas, he lets go to make sure Ash isn’t uncomfortable.

Though as soon as they get their drinks and re-enter the bustling living room, Ash takes his hand _again,_ and Shorter’s heart really can’t look into it. They don’t want to be separated, that’s it. His executioner couldn’t have any ulterior motives. It’d be too much to think about. He leads him outside, but Shorter isn’t complaining. It smells like sweat and booze in there.

Shorter holds a Bud Light while Ash sips on plain orange juice.

“Not a drinker?”

“Nope.” Fortunately, the two no longer have to yell over the music to hear each other.. Unfortunately, there’s a gruesome, uncomfortable pause.

“Do you like tattooing people?” Ash finally asks a question.

“I don’t tattoo. I’m shit at art. I just pierce.”

“Would you mind doing my ears for me, then?” Shorter’s heart jumps as he watches Ash smirk while asking. Of course he would pierce him. Everybody looked good with a ring or stud here and there. Faces were like canvases begging to be accessorized. And that Ash now trusts Shorter enough to let him punch a needle through his skin… that’s character development, baby. Yet he would’ve never taken him for someone who cared enough about his appearance, enough for that sort of thing. Well, he mentioned a disguise earlier. Another thought was Ash is preparing himself to recreate their dream, getting every detail perfect before finally shooting him. Shorter shakes it out of his mind. He trusts Ash. He does.

He yearns to ask him about the soft dreams, the laughter and companionship. He’s been having more of those lately. No shootouts, just two friends. But they are only dreams, he has to remind himself. Not memories. He doesn’t really know this man. He can’t tell him he wants to play with his hair and take him driving on a motorcycle he doesn’t have. He can’t tell him how fate didn’t exist before they met.

“Sure thing. I’m the best piercer in Chinatown.” He brags.

“Good luck to Chinatown then.” Before Shorter can remind Ash he was the one who brought it up in the first place, a scrawny Chinese kid comes running towards them. 

“Yo, Shawty. You made it!”

“Of course.” He ruffles Sing’s hair, and they start a conversation. Shorter asks how many of these kids does he actually know personally and how the hell he got all this alcohol. Sing dodges the questions by talking about this new tattoo design he has. Ash stands there patiently aside and watches them. After around five minutes of practically ignoring him, Sing finally looks past Shorter to get a better peek at the stranger.

“Who’s the blonde?”

“I am.” Ash answers before Shorter can do it for him.

“Cool.” Sing nods and like an over-hyped kid not paying attention, probably because that’s what he is. These are all buzzed adolescents gossiping about each other and trying to forget how much highschool sucks. He really, _really_ shouldn’t be here. Someone calls Sing’s name, and he’s gone as quickly as he came. Shorter watches him leave and turns to Ash.

“Could’ve just told him your name.” He sulks. Ash frowns and brushes a strand of hair in front of his face.

“Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t know me.” Shorter is about to call him edgy, but Ash sighs and begins speaking again. “I honestly came here to see if you were some old pervert preying on high school kids. You seem to have a good relationship with him, though.”

“I’m not a perv!” Shorter mashes his eyebrows together, slightly turning pink behind his sunglasses. Ash smiles.

“Let’s go.” He leads him out of the house to his car. Shorter didn’t even know Ash had a car. It makes him riding the subway even more confusing. Literally and metaphorically, Shorter is willing to forget it and follow Ash wherever he goes. The destination isn’t important, the man taking him there is. Wasn’t he supposed to find Lao? Who’s Lao? Who’s anyone besides the pretty blonde walking in front of him? It’s not just any car, though. It’s a red Mercedes, and Shorter almost faints. They get in, and he can’t help but run his hands along the leather interior. He was never a car junkie, but this shit was nice.

“I got this for my sixteenth birthday.” Ash grips the steering wheel. The key wasn’t even in the ignition. “I barely use it.” His facial features turn cold.

“Why not?”

“Tell me where you live. I’ll give you a ride home” Avoiding the topic, Ash starts the engine. Shorter tells him, and they sit in quiet until they’re right outside his apartment. Nothing but the soft hum of the radio playing some classical jazz station. Ash opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, then closes it again.

“I never said sorry for attacking you in the library, so, sorry.” He sighs and lets his hands lie in his lap. Shorter listens intently, though he had already forgiven him a while ago. In fact, he was never even upset. It was another example of an unsaid understanding between them, but now the understanding might actually be understood. Ash isn’t usually one to express regret over his actions. If he does something, he means it.

“You were just defending yourself. You don’t owe me an apology.”

“There are videos of me online,” Ash says suddenly. “Videos of me as a kid, being…” He trails off and takes a deep breath in. “In the library, I didn’t recognize you, and thought you were some slime who had somehow found me and was planning to, I dunno, recreate them. That’s why I hurt you.” A long silence stretches between them. Shorter can’t even begin to imagine. He hates the world. He wants to murder everyone who’s ever laid a finger on Ash.

“I’m so fucking sorry-”

“Save it.” Ash snaps. “I’m not in the mood.” His eyes turn dark as he looks straight ahead. “I don’t know why I even told you. Get out.”

“If it makes you feel better, I-”

“It won’t.” More tense silence. He isn’t sure why Ash was telling him this either, or why he feels so guilty for something Shorter hasn’t thought twice about. It seems so out of character, maybe because he has no one else to tell. Shorter doesn’t need an explanation from Ash, and Ash doesn’t want Shorter’s pity. They were at a stalemate, and all Shorter wanted to do now was give him a hug.

“I fell out of a tree as a kid, and my sister laughed at me.” Ash looks insanely frustrated, but there’s a hint of a smile.

“You must’ve had a rough childhood.” He plays along.

“Another time someone stole my blue eyes white dragon, a super rare Yu-Gi-Oh card.”

“Tragic.”

“Then one time I kept having dreams where this guy was shooting me, but then I met the actual guy and he turned out to be really nice and cool and smart. And totally didn’t deserve the bad things that had happened to him. And I promised the guy from now on I would always be by his side. He can always count on me.”

“The guy says thanks.” Ash looks defeated, like all the fury has been drained out of him. Like he just wants Shorter and his corny promises to leave. Instead, Shorter unbuckles his seatbelt and goes around to open the driver's seat door. His arms spread out, and he’s waiting for Ash to either take it or deny. Either outcome, he’ll always be here for him if he needs one.

Ash slowly climbs out so Shorter can wrap his arms around him. He stands there for a few seconds, shaking, before doing the same. It seems he isn’t used to friends; he doesn’t know what to do, how to act. It’s awkward, like he’s never hugged before. Like he’s never been touched without being hurt. They stay like that for a few minutes in the cold New York air.

“You’re my best friend, yeah?” In his dreams, it all felt so real. This was more than a coincidence, but Shorter had already figured out Ash and him were destined for something greater. Even if he ended up killing him, even if the dreams never went away, it would be okay. He can feel Ash smile on his shoulder as well as the wetness of a few tears.

“Yeah, whatever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii this is a reupload of a work I wrote like a year ago, but now with edits and an actual ending!! Rereading the original fic I decided “damn this sucks,” so I edited and rewrote parts to fit my modern standards™ of writing (even I still don't really like it) With improvement comes embarrassment. ;(
> 
> Anyways thank you for reading and stan shorash!! I'll update with the other revised chapters fairly soon :3


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